The Crazy Book

Haim Gouri

1971

Arab Halva—moist, sticky, fibrous. The taste tears across my lips like a memory. Within me Jaffa stirs, wakens from sleep; eyes and faces of Jaffa.

I am there, it is afternoon, a city half-awake, swept by sea wind. Jaffa arises from sleep domed and spired, shadowy orchards beneath a lilac sky, an ebbing sea like metal.

Evening. This is her silence…

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